


Beneath the Visiting Moon

by LadyAmaranthine



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Late Stage AIDS, M/M, garden lodge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-04-08 11:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19105828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAmaranthine/pseuds/LadyAmaranthine
Summary: five glimpses, 1990-1991.Updated! (5/5, finished.)please read the content note.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Content note: late-stage AIDS.** That is the only specific note I am giving, please proceed with caution.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last time Jim and Freddie make love.

*

It’s the last time they fuck, though who’s to say so, then? The light in the bedroom hangs low and warm and hazy, even softer than usual. Delilah miaows outside the closed door – once – twice – three times – and then the cross patter of cat feet recedes into silence. 

Jim has offered to bottom for Freddie, several times now, but Freddie can hardly rouse the interest. He can’t get hard under his own hand – nor under Jim’s, which is worse – for more than a few moments. His body has forgotten what to do; it seems to have lost all memory of what matters, of what pleasure used to be. Even after a bath Freddie feels like he must smell of stomach acid and raw shit. Almond oil in the bath; the scent of orange blossom and roses; the minty ointment Jim and Phoebe dab on his sorest places... and yet he is never clean. It’s what disease does to you: always inside, working its filaments into blood and skin and organs, sifting on through. A darkness, an unexplained slow tide of death, something you can feel and smell; something no makeup can cover. 

He sucks Jim’s cock. Breathing hard, gulping, curled next to him, over him, on the bed. The quilts piled under Freddie’s body cushion him, half holding him up, and Jim’s thighs and belly are warm as ever, familiar as ever. Yet when he finishes, gasping, he can’t move from the hunched position he’s in. _Graceful_ Mercury, he thinks, entirely unsure if he wants to scream or laugh. His body remembers every moment on stage, although more and more often it leaves him stranded and stilled like this. To remember moving fluidly, and then not to move at all. He tried to tell Brian, and Brian said, _a conundrum_ , incredibly gently: stroking Freddie’s hair, like in the early days, and steadying Freddie’s head between his scarred, guitar-striped hands. 

He’s stuck there like a fucking eighty-year-old. His leg is spasming, and he feels the bad foot twitch – a dreadful uncontrolled movement, something in which he has no say. Jim uncurls him, and he is so slow, so careful that Freddie wants to shout out something rude, like _I won’t break_. It’s a bit late for that, though. Jim lifts him and puts him back in his place at the top of the bed; he pulls the covers up a little way over Freddie, but not completely. They can’t just sleep, not in this life they live now. He is talking, back from the spell of his own climax, but Freddie won’t listen, can’t listen. He did a bad job – it was okay, but no better than that. If a man could be said to come from sheer politeness, he’s pretty sure Jim did. 

Jim brings the bedpan for Freddie, since they both know there’s no way he’s going to manage the loo now. Some afterglow, Freddie thinks bitterly. He is trying, trying hard, not to cry aloud. Let Jim think he is only spent from their embraces, from his efforts to give Jim a decent time: that is the fairer thing. He needs to pee but he can’t relax, he’s too upset. It’s ridiculous, of course, but when he stopped being able to receive – oh, the thing I do _best_ , darling, he remembers purring, a thousand years ago – because of all the bleeding, he’d thought at least he could still give Jim this. “Oh, why don’t you stick around and watch me die, love?” That’s a fair offer. Jim is rubbing his stomach, his abdomen – smooth, regular strokes, and Freddie finally relaxes. Only he can’t hide the tears any longer. He is sniffling and choking like a stupid child, which is more or less what he’s becoming. He wants to tell Jim to go, have a better life, just get shot of me. Get shot of what’s left, that is. 

He’s afraid of the loneliness, but just as ashamed of the fear, and the selfishness it brings with it. Let him go, Freddie tells himself. Let him go. 

But he can’t. Jim dries him, tidies him; he cleans Freddie’s cheeks and soothes them with rosewater; he tucks the new rose-coloured quilt around Freddie, turns up the heater, lets Delilah in, and lies down close, not too close. If Freddie is thirsty or frightened, if he vomits in his sleep, Jim will be only an arm’s length away. 

It is too much and it is not enough. There’s no way to know a last time when you see one, but Freddie has learnt to recognise a failure. He’s getting so good at that. This is not the sort of discernment he wanted, but it has become necessary, and so in its way, a blessing.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Essential ingredients sourced from _Mercury and Me_ , by Jim Hutton. 
> 
> Say hi on tumblr, I’m @freddieofhearts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second of five glimpses into 1990-1991.

*

Of course Jim is exhausted. There are no unbroken nights now, although the nature of what disturbs their rest is never entirely predictable. When Freddie is only half awake – but murmuring already, beginning a high-pitched whimper as pain wracks his wasted muscles and his arms and legs curl into spasms – Jim wakes instantly, with the startled clarity of the sickbed watcher. 

He soothes as best he can, stroking Freddie’s dry and chilly skin. He needs no extra lights on for this; the moonlight falling between the curtains is more than enough. He kisses Freddie’s soft hair: above his ear; at his temple; on top of his head. In between kisses he speaks, but the words are not meaningful, only “Hush” and “Love” and other such addle-pated nonsense. It’s to let Freddie know someone is there with him: that he is not lying alone. 

When Freddie jerks against him, gulps in a breath and begins to weep, Jim pulls back a little. What’s wrong? Is the pain worse? He strokes along Freddie’s arms, down his chest, checking for a sore place. Has Freddie had another of his terrible dreams, or woken to the misery of pyjamas and sheets soiled by the unending diarrhoea that is stripping him relentlessly of weight and strength? 

Jim cups Freddie’s wet face with his hand. “Pain?” he says, pausing for Freddie to answer and getting nothing but a choky gasp. “Do you need a change, love? It’s all right, I promise. It’s all right.” He kisses Freddie’s ear and pulls back their quilts, and the lace-edged sheets Freddie bought so joyfully. Brussels lace, the most expensive sheets Jim’s ever slept in. He folds them over, careful, careful not to jostle – Even if Freddie is too ashamed to say so, he will have to put on the light and see what’s happened, and he should be able to smell it if – 

On their newfound scale of good and ill fortune – such that you cannot imagine it until it becomes your life – Jim is lucky this time. Freddie has only wet his bed, which is an easy clean-up. No crisis. No haemorrhage. No need for a doctor. Just a pain pill, a wipe down; dry pyjamas, and a cuddle on Jim’s lap in the armchair until the tears stop. He can no longer pretend not to notice how light Freddie is: he is a man, but he feels like a child in Jim’s arms. Tucking a red velvet quilt around him in the armchair, Jim feels part lover, part mother. He pulls off the sheets expertly and rolls them; there’s a biohazard bin in the bathroom closest to Freddie’s bedroom, tucked inside a cupboard so Freddie never has to see it. Why upset him any more, Phoebe said when he smuggled it into the house, why should he have to know it’s there? 

Jim washes his hands, spreads out the new sheets on the bed and lifts Freddie in his arms, as if he were a piece of Chinese porcelain, all yellow and white and gold. “Into bed now, lovey,” he whispers, smoothing Freddie’s hair, settling pillows around the small body to keep Freddie safe in the bed, stable: god forbid he fall out. A broken rib could be the end. 

Freddie nuzzles against Jim weakly; in the dim lamplight, his eyes look so heavy-lidded in his hollow cheeks. He says, in one of his smallest voices, “Darling, you look so tired. I’m so sorry. I wish –” 

He doesn’t have the words for everything he wishes, not any more. Now he is much too weary to cry, and even if he could it would only mean another thing for Jim to manage: _Time to mop me up again, my darling. Only the head end, but forgive me if I still don’t relish the thought._

Black sleep pulls Freddie under. In its depthless waters he is tossed and carried, and Jim watches, sitting, lying, drowsing on and off. 

Yet moving to the Pink Room is another of the house’s unspeakable things. There are too many of them: sometimes everyone’s throat feels full at once. Jim cannot discuss it with anyone – not with Joe, and not with Phoebe, for the privilege of sleeping at Freddie’s side and caring for him during the long dark hours is something he knows they envy. It is the loving kind of jealousy, but it means they certainly cannot understand why Jim would sleep elsewhere; they’re half angry with him, half baffled. And he cannot say a word to Freddie’s own friends, since Freddie still tries desperately to shield them as much as he can. He is ashamed, bone-deep, and it hurts Jim – a true, physical ache in his chest – to see how tired he is after each visit. When they leave, Freddie lies limp as a doll on the sofa; he cannot walk or speak or drink. He is trying so hard to summon up his old self, to pour the same wit and spirit and power into a failing body; not to show weakness – nor anything else that betrays an illness so deviant, disgusting – such a mark of Cain. 

The bitter thing is that Jim is fairly sure these efforts are far less successful than Freddie thinks, but he cannot bring himself to strip away whatever dignity Freddie still believes he is preserving. If Freddie and his friends all want to pretend he is not as ill as he is, then – horrible charade as it seems, almost cruel when he is so frail – Jim won’t interfere, won’t ruin the illusion, the last, the darkest game Freddie will ever play. 

For the whole of his first night spent _not_ with Freddie, Jim can’t get a wink, and the appalling thought comes that this is what it will be like when Freddie dies. All night he listens to skitterings and scufflings of cats, up and down the stairs, along the corridors; sometimes a louder sound as a cat jumps from somewhere high up and lands with surprising awkwardness. 

He hears nothing from Freddie, though he insisted on leaving both their doors ajar. “It’s that or I’m not moving at all,” he’d said. “I have to be able to hear you, I can’t bear to think –”

“Darling, if you say so,” Freddie laughed. “Although I’m quite sure it will altogether negate the benefits of the experiment, since your snoring can pass through _walls_ , my love, let alone the poor air...” 

And yet the night is such a quiet one. Freddie wakes once, and he just wants a pain pill; Jim helps him up and walks him to the loo with an arm round him, feeling vertebrae, hip bones, things that should never be palpable like that, under Freddie’s thin pyjamas. 

Afterwards, when Freddie is carefully arranged in his bed again, and Delilah’s purring is the loudest sound in the room, Jim kisses him on the lips: not deeply, not for a long time. It is the softest kiss. He needs all his willpower to walk out of there and go back to the Pink Room. 

He lies down in the bed – this bed which is now his, he who is lover, gardener, nurse – and he waits and he waits for the morning. And in the end it comes, slow and blue, with a ripple of birdsong: _alive today_ , are the words that play over in Jim’s mind, as he watches the window brighten. Alive today. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Essential ingredients sourced from _Mercury and Me_ , by Jim Hutton.
> 
> Say hi on tumblr, I’m @freddieofhearts.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third of five glimpses into 1990-1991.

*

Freddie can’t keep down anything for dinner, but that’s normal. They’re used to it. Of course it’s no fun, Holy Mother of God ... but Phoebe’s a dab hand with a basin and it’s usually over soon enough. Between the three of them, Freddie’s cleaned up and tucked in with a cashmere blanket on the sofa, head pillowed in Jim’s lap. It would be more romantic if this tender scene wasn’t preceded by a bout of retching – or worse, what Phoebe persists in calling ‘both-ends’, which has implications of dying Edwardian slum children, and infuriates Freddie – but it’s still, strangely, a moment that feels close to love. 

His hands look huge as they hover around Freddie’s skull, which has so little flesh to it now. Freddie’s hair is too fine and flossy to bear being combed through by any fingers, but Jim strokes it, the movements feeling strange to him because they are so delicate, as if he has suddenly been handed a premature infant. They’ll watch anything, now, although sometimes Freddie is upset and says what a waste of time this is, what is this shit, why are we doing this. Most of the time he’s too tired to concentrate on a film. He seems to like it when they’ve scheduled something he’s watched before, so that dropping off to sleep and missing some of it matters less. 

It’s hard to talk about that, because he doesn’t like it if you say he seems more tired, or should we try this. Obedient as he is to the doctors’ instructions, and the resultant disassembling of everything that was normal in Garden Lodge, he still wants to play at this-is-like-a-terrible-hangover-darling, at least sometimes. He has a tube in his chest now. There’s an IV pole in his bedroom, and sometimes they hang a bag of blood on it, to drip down into Freddie’s dry little veins. He lets them wear gloves – hell, he’s started _reminding_ them – when they clean him up, or change his sheets. 

You have to lift him carefully. He’ll bruise from a touch. 

All the same, there’s some truth in what people have said about getting used to anything. Joe said crudely once, when Freddie was in tears, “It’s just a bit of puke.” 

And Phoebe, patting his back, “Don’t take on.” 

Of course for Freddie there is the ingratitude, the waste, the mess. It’s not as if Joe is an unknown chef hired in from an agency: that would still be awful, but it’s worse when everyone here, all the people who look after you, are as close as this. When they’ve known you, in the biblical sense and more, for a long time. He’s tried to explain, I wish, I _wish_ there was something I could do, I’m sorry. Joe, I’m so sorry. 

All they say is that of course, it’s all right, does he think anyone believes he’s enjoying this? 

It is not that, so much as the almost intolerable grind of being at the centre of a house of people, and doing nothing, causing nothing but chaos and filth, creating this unending need for reassurance on the long death march through degradation. Anyone – anyone at all – would feel a sense of self disgust. He thinks, it’s only human, isn’t it. This too, too sullied flesh – 

Every time his eyes fill, someone notices and is there to soothe him. He will shut his eyes then, to seem better. 

In a way, the greatest respite the Pink Room offers him, is privacy to let out some tears in silence, and alone. I am really dying. Really? His gut throbs and his foot is stinging badly. He won’t cry aloud, won’t wake anyone now. He pushes his hand into Delilah’s thick fur. Yes, this is the very true, the most sincere, the entirely authentic, undeniable, inexcusable curtain call. Or at least the red carpet to it, darling Delilah. 

It is perhaps half past four when the refractory vomiting starts. This, they have all been told, is more serious than straight after a meal. Yes, if it won’t stop, do telephone, please. He’s sweaty and twisted up tight, small, in Phoebe’s arms, head over a plastic bowl and Jim is stripping off the top quilt, a victim of splashing. So it’s Joe who calls, and of course the wait can’t be long, not when it’s Garden Lodge ringing round, but it feels like hours. It feels like so long. His abdomen is blazing with pain. It hurts too much to cry. 

There’s an injection. Cannula in his arm, a drip. Another sharp jab, and Freddie hears Jim say, “– Pain?” 

The doctor says, “Oh yes, it should help quite a bit.” 

He’s there, and not quite. They’re rearranging the bed around him. Jim takes off his pyjamas and wipes down his sweaty skin. It’s freezing. God, he hates the rubbery gloves. In theory it should be sexy, but they turn his stomach. Jim and Phoebe cleaning him up, lifting, turning. He’s covered again. A big, bare hand on his head. A thumb wipes under his eyes. 

He hears Jim’s voice, speaking very low as if he thinks Freddie is asleep already. “Come up, then,” he says. He must be speaking to Delilah. “Don’t you look at me like that, Madam. You know where you’re wanted, so none of this will-I-won’t-I.” The words are tender.

There’s a soft, light pressure on the bed: a cat has jumped up. Freddie sighs. Well, yes. It’s all the real thing, this time. 

*

_Where art thou, death?_  
_Come hither, come! come, come, and take a queen_  
_Worthy many babes and beggars!_

– Act V, scene ii, _Antony and Cleopatra_

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Essential ingredients sourced from _Mercury and Me_ , by Jim Hutton.
> 
> Say hi on tumblr, I’m @freddieofhearts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fourth of five glimpses into 1990-1991.

*

One of the bad times is when they take him away into Customs alone. Freddie feels all of the smallness that everybody is still pretending doesn’t exist. When Terry lifts you, the lack of effort is palpable. Swoop you up light as a feather, easy as a little girl. Scoop you into his arms and you’re out of there. _Auf wiedersehen_ , as they say. 

A year or two ago on bad days, they’d say, Put your arms round my neck. Up we go. Hold tight. They’ve stopped saying that now. 

Terry pretends, still, that there’s a great heave-ho to it; he seems to think this is good manners. “Must’ve been getting at the spinach,” he says gently – as now, it all defaults to gentle, and some marked effort is required to stir up anything else, any change. 

“Popeye has some competition, he’ll have to look to his laurels.” 

He will clasp Freddie’s upper arm, where there was once a bicep, in his hand. Careful as if he were touching porcelain. Or a kitten. Or something made of icing sugar. 

This game is called, you’re not dying, not in the least. It ought to be hard to lift a grown man: let’s say it’s hard to carry you, too. Weren’t you a man? At some point it becomes difficult to say, when you are unsexed and half-child, half-geriatric. Phoebe spoons plain scrambled egg into your mouth. Wipes your mouth for you, when you can’t lift your hand. 

Someone says, “Drink this,” in the night, and you obey them. It’s sweet, familiar – not medicine, only juice. 

This wheelchair would fit Freddie twice over. The airport’s, not his own with the sheepskin in it, and the special cushion. It’s sore against his tailbone, bruising. He doesn’t know who is holding the handles. Not Jim. Not Phoebe or Terry or Joe. Not Roger. He feels sick, still, from the landing; the blank airport corridor is tilting and confused before his eyes. 

How far are we going, he thinks, and what if this person has been paid off, what if they’re press. What if I puke. There’s nothing for it to go in. 

He has an image of the front pages that will follow if that happens. The Mail, the Mirror. Pictures of him in the chair with sick down his front. He is shivering, and all the extra blankets are in the suitcases. Don’t cry, don’t you dare. Not here. Never in public. They said, didn’t they, just a little while, to make it _easier_ , not harder. Better this than queues of people staring. Now he isn’t sure if they’d recognise him without the band, people who don’t know what to look for, who aren’t press johnnies. 

But they’d still stare. _Not long for this world, poor dear_. How long is long, though? This certainly doesn’t feel like long enough, but what would content you, when would you feel: ah, yes, I have drunk my fill. And dash away the cup. Or set it gently down.

They’ve been talking about pressure a lot. Not to him, but in his hearing. Freddie’s noticed that while he gets to make the choices which are considered officially the most important – do I want to take this medication, or stop taking it? – they’ve stopped asking him about most of the little things now. There seems to be a tacit understanding that it’s an unnecessary back and forth, that time and strength will be wasted in persuading Freddie to do something he has to do anyway, like be turned at night, or have his nails clipped. 

They still chat to him all the time, of course. It’s not as if they’re already tending to a corpse. No one ever shuts up, as if that makes it easier to bear the flood of small and large indignities that has grown over the years, far beyond anything he could have imagined. 

No one tells you dying is as inelegant as this. Nobody really warns you. 

Skin breakdown, he’s heard the doctor say: immobility, emaciation. Cachexia. Febrile. Incontinence. Jim and Phoebe only use the shorter, kinder words: _thin_ and _turn_. _Sit you up_ and _a bit hot_ and _a bit wet_. Nobody ever says what number his temperature is, not any more, although they used to back in ’87 and ’88. It has become a sacred, treasured knowledge now. He could ask – but he doesn’t ask. 

Once there was a fearful scrape as they turned him and he cried out, couldn’t stop himself. 

Once after he heard them talking, he repeated some old words, “Under pressure we’re breaking,” and began to laugh, as well as he can laugh now. It is quite tiring. 

Whoever was there, he can’t remember which one now, took his temperature straight away and wrote it down in the book.

Something he didn’t understand before is that the last times, for all the ordinary things, leave no trace. They’re gone before he is. The last performance? He knows when that was. The last appearance? That too. 

But the last time he ran, the last time he walked easily, the last time he enjoyed a meal; the last time he picked one of the cats up – which cat? he doesn’t even remember that – and the last time he went to the loo without thinking and without assistance; the last time he took a bath alone, normally, as simply a part of a straightforward, beautiful, ongoing life – the last time he woke up and didn’t feel pain before feeling anything else, the tight, stopped catch of the breath –

It’s gone completely. Even he can’t remember it, and so nobody else is going to; it’s not what anyone thinks is important. Except for being the texture of life lived, the warp and weft of simply existing: exactly what goes, in other words. That’s why, he thinks, there is so little left. Hands, mostly gloved. Kisses. Drink this. Sharp scratch. A black swim of sleep. 

The chair hurts, but this is no place for crying. They are trying to be kind. After all, it’s obvious to everyone now what’s happening, you can’t miss it if you try. All of Garden Lodge has tried. He’s tried, and Jim’s tried harder than anyone, and poor darling, darling John has tried, is still trying – can’t accept it, won’t. Although, who can? 

He’s not sure if they recognise him here. Have they been told who, or only _a very sick person, a dying man_. No one asks for a signature, or even mentions Queen. How odd if he really is, at long last, unrecognisable. Without a retinue, without Brian’s hair and Red Special and Roger’s blond grimace, that serious look he’s been wearing lately – without a bodyguard and an assistant and everyone, everyone else, he’s a man in a wheelchair. An AIDS patient.

He’s Mr No-Name-Needed, these days. He’s changed again, he’s slipped right past them. Turned invisible. He’s waiting to be collected, but if they’re not careful they might walk right past him. 

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Essential ingredients sourced from _Mercury and Me_ , by Jim Hutton and Phoebe Freestone’s informative blog. 
> 
> Debilitated wheelchair users are no longer separated from the rest of their party when receiving accelerated passage through an airport; this approach has been almost universally changed. I wish it had been so in Freddie’s time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fifth of five glimpses into 1990-1991

*

Around three or four, it’s entirely quiet even here. The most assiduous pressmen cannot stay all day, every day. All night. The clamour softens, then dies. 

Someone’s always here in the room. Not a single moment alone, that is all over and done with. If the upstairs has begun to smell like somebody is dying, no one speaks of it. This house was confected to be a thing of beauty, a living witticism: art for love’s sake. It’s no hospital, no tomb. 

What does it matter who lies in the centre of this spared-no-expense bedroom, in a bed dressed with the finest over its plastic sheets? A bag of bones caught together by skin. Breath still comes and goes. Small gusts of breath. You can hold his hand, but only in a terrible light grip, as though passionless. Now, when you would – if only, if only – gather him up, lift the sweet, near-extinguished all of him, hold him against you. If you pressed his face to your chest, it would smother him. Ecstasy is death. Something he’s always laughed about, laughed at. 

There are flowers. The hook for the drip. Things that are needed set conveniently to hand. The swabs, the sponges, the pads. His poor lips are dry. At least that can be soothed, at least.

Interchangeable visitors, swallowing tears. Their eyes shining with last-minute love. This is the radiance wrung out of such days. Taking his little hand. Sitting on the bed with him. 

In some respects it’s easier now that he’s no longer trying to eat. Not the weakness, but the respite it brings. 

“Freddie,” Peter says, stroking his forehead. “Drink this, sweetheart. Just a sip, for me.” All the words seem strange to his own ear. Though they are gentle, they shape themselves around the bitterness in his throat. As if there’s some infection there – and if there is, he thinks, I shouldn’t come near Freddie, it’s dangerous, I could hurt him. 

Silly me. 

He sets down the cup on the bedside table and dries Freddie’s chin. Even if it were real, it’s far too late.

When you are receiving a traditional English education, no matter where in the world you happen to live, sooner or later you will encounter 1 Corinthians 13:11. This is as inevitable as cricket, Gilbert and Sullivan, being fiddled with by someone bigger. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

You can leave behind everything, even your name.

Buy a pattern, buy some material, buy the sequins. You can sew it yourself. And who am I now? And now? And do you like it? 

What is a dying man. What is he. If there are teddy bears in the bed, does that make a child of him? If he cries? If he is not brave? If he asks for each and every cat to be found and carried in to give him a kiss, to press their cold wet noses against him? 

Dancer and Music-maker, boy and androgyne. What man did you become, and unbecome, and think you’d be forever … what enchantment was on you? Oh, song of songs. Shy creature. Courage is not required here. 

Until now, until this time and place, perhaps it has been. Only a time comes when such ideas are obsolete.

All that make believe, darling. It’s really time to stop. 

*

_I am fire and air; my other elements_  
_I give to baser life._

– Act V, scene ii, _Antony and Cleopatra_

*

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome Freddie-centric prompts on Tumblr (@freddieofhearts).


End file.
